Rattling Bones
by Gospel Stonemad
Summary: Manolo has come back from the dead, but there are a few… side effects.
1. Rattling Bones

Maria spent a dance with Joaquin during the wedding, the two of them smiling and giggling as others passed around them, cloth brushing against skin, their hands clasped tightly as they relaxed, at last, for the first time since she had woken up from the trance. Manolo was back, Chakal was defeated, and, while they had lost a few good people that day, the village was in one piece, the citizens alive. The skeletal form of Carlos spun past their view, Carmen holding him and leading, her footsteps sure and smile bright.

At long last, the song faded and their hands clapped for the bowing band before they started on another upbeat song. Maria looked for Manolo, searching for his head above the crowd, Joaquin beside her, lending his height silently even though he had just one good eye to search with.

Their friend was nowhere to be found even though his family was surrounding them.

Maria led the way to the church, figuring that her husband (what a word that was; _marido_) was inside perhaps taking a break from the shade—or her father, which was much the same thing as both were bright and blinding and unbearably fiery when tempered.

Music drifted through the walls, her and Joaquin's footsteps echoing. The pews, however, were empty and Maria frowned, quickening her feet and walking around the corner to go down one hallway—and stopped.

Manolo was there, sitting on the floor with his head laid back against the stone, eyes softly closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he watched something deep in his dreams. Both hands were folded on his lap and, sure enough, water was beside him.

The cup was not the only thing standing guardian, for sitting across from him was the woman who had stood upon the building. Her black hair was strewn out behind her, somehow elegant, despite the fact that it was sitting upon the swept floor of a church. Her eyes were focused on something in her hands, fingers brushing down pointed edges, smoothing wax, forming a small sculpture of a skull. Her thumbs punched in the eye sockets before she turned and looked up at them, eyes like smouldering coals.

Her smile was gentle; a quirk of her blood red lips. "_Hola_, Maria," she said and turned that stare onto the man in green, her face, if possible, just as soft and proud. "Joaquin." The white skin glistened from tiny crystals of sugar as she turned back to Manolo, the skulls on her hat clinking together, the candles flickering. A sound rose up in her throat; a hum that filled them with warmth, easing their hearts before they knew they needed to be eased.

Maria and Joaquin sat down, leaning against the wall and watched as Manolo's head dipped and then jerked back up, his eyes staying closed even as he sniffled and curled up tighter. His friends pressed in on both sides and he sighed, relaxing against them, the frown on his face softening.

"—_I am sorry_." The words rose up from the goddess as if they were merely an afterthought—something that needed to be said, yet they slipped from between her lips like ghosts. Maria and Joaquin looked up and saw her carving out the smiling, toothy mouth on her wax skull with a fingernail. "_Hear my song, I know I sing the truth..._" She went back to humming, her tongue sticking just a bit out of her mouth as she focused on getting the small markings on the cheeks, chin, and forehead just right.

The song faded away and, as the last note was being whisked away by the stuffy air of the church, La Muerte put down the wax skull and turned her eyes to them again. Her hands folded on her lap, the skeletal white shockingly bright against the crimson of her dress. She never prompted them, never said anything beyond those few words of song, and yet they wanted her to speak more, to tell them what had happened to their friend.

"He was dead," Maria managed and those bright, burning eyes turned to her. "He was dead, I saw his body."

"Yes," the goddess dipped her head in acknowledgement and the hat moved with her, hiding her face from view for a few moments. "Manolo arrived in the Land of the Remembered and was reunited with his family."

The young woman reached over, brushing her brown hair from her face, the wedding dress bunching up against her waist as she grasped her husband's hand and flesh the warmth residing in his skin, the faint pump of blood moving through his veins. "I do not understand," Maria murmured.

"How is he alive?" Joaquin asked, scooting closer so his shoulder caught Manolo's dipping head. The bullfighter's cheek rested against his arm, the black hair tickling the soldier's neck.

"That," La Muerte said, her eyes turning to the younger man. "Is not my story to tell." But she smiled in a way that Maria had seen mothers smile at their sons. "At least—" a laughed bubbled up her throat and her gaze became unfocused, staring at the wall, watching the far future. "—not _yet_."

There was a good nature chuckle and all of their eyes moved to the man they were speaking of, his eyes partially open, cheek still resting on Joaquin's shoulder. "As long as you and Xibalba don't make another wager out of it."

She waved her hand and smiled in a way that lit up the candles on her hat and her dress. "How else are we supposed to find our fun, Manolo?"

He sighed in exasperation, but the smile took the sting away. A silence settled around them and his eyes were drifting close again before he pried them open. "Am I supposed to be this tired?"

La Muerte picked up the wax skull, turning it over in her hands. "Your soul needs rest," she brushed her fingers over the eyes and, for a second, Maria thought that she would crush her sculpture between her hands; but the pressure eased and the skull had been unaffected. "It has been through much."

Maria felt him shudder beside her and gripped his hand tighter, pressing closer to him.

"But you have done good things, today," the goddess continued and offered the wax to him. "And you deserve to sleep."

"Thank you, my lady," he murmured, accepting the gift and cupping it to his chest.

She rose off the floor, her candles staying upright, graceful even as she stood. "I must go find my husband," La Muerte admitted and offered all of them one more smile. "Be well, you three." Turning, the goddess headed down the hallway, lighting up the stone as she passed. "I hope to not see you in my realm for a very long time."

By the time she vanished from sight, Manolo was asleep again, holding the skull, clutching at Maria's hand, and resting his head upon Joaquin. He continued to doze through the festivities and, even when the Sanchez family sunk back into the ground, swallowed up by the earth, the bullfighter did not awaken. Joaquin carried him to casa de Sanchez and laid him down upon his bed.

Maria settled in a chair, and pulled her friend to join her, watching over her husband and her friend with wide, brown eyes. "Do you think he will be alright?" She murmured.

Looking over the bullfighter, Joaquin could say nothing else except for a quiet, "yes."

Waking up hours later to a flash and a bang, Maria rubbed at her eyes, back aching from the awkward position of sitting in the chair and leaning on the bed. She rubbed her eyes and winced when bones cracked, a shiver running down her spine like the rain upon the glass. The sheets of the bed were rumpled and messy, but they held no Manolo and she looked around before spotting him watching the storm outside.

"_Mi amor_," she murmured, carefully standing so the chair would not be jerked back. "What are you doing?"

He looked back at her, having changed out of his bull fighting outfit and was now wearing just an undershirt and a pair of loose pants that hung around his hips. "I did not mean to wake you," their hands came together, clasping tightly as the streetlights outside shone orange. The bar down the street was still lit up, so it must not have been too late.

Or too early, as was sometimes the case.

The rain was coming down, splashing on the road and creating small rivers that flowed down the cobble stone paths. Maria rubbed her thumb across his knuckles and smiled kindly up at him, her eyes soft as she looked over his face.

Outside, lightning flashed, sending a burst of white light through the room and the visage before her changed in an instant.

There was bone with swirling designs carved across the jaw and under the eyes that were black except for the single, yellow irises glowing in the centre. They burned like coals, like La Muerte's, piercing the young woman deep into her soul, picking apart truths and lies. It was all gone in an instant before appearing again with the lightning as it struck a second time.

"Maria?" Monolo leaned closer, his face, his _skin_, lit up by the orange lights outside once the blinding white had faded. "What's wrong?" Panic was rising in his tone and she watched his eyes flick over her face, searching.

Brown eyes.

Not black.

Certainly not yellow.

"Manolo," she whispered, holding onto his fingers, his palms, and felt the warmth coming from his skin, felt his pulse beat underneath her. He was alive, she kept telling herself. He was alive and she was tired, yes. It was just a dream, just a hallucination—

The lightning came again, changing his face for a second time. It distorted his hands, his neck, and what she could see under his shirt.

Flesh to bone.

She jerked and Manolo's eyes (the brown similar to the colour of a golden eagle) widened, hands reaching out for her but not touching. The tips of his fingers brushed the cloth of her dress, a whisper against the fabric before he pulled back and her chest ached at the sight. "Maria, what's wrong?"

Reaching forward, the young woman took his hand and watched his face as lightning sparked once more. "Manolo," she whispered, pressing one palm against his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart against her skin. "You..." but Maria had to pause, unable to ask if he was still dead, if the illusion of life was making her hopeful before he was stolen from her again. Instead, she pulled him to the mirror on the wall, stood beside him and looked upon the glass as he followed her willingly and silent.

White light, bone, black and yellow eyes—Manolo jerked back out of her hold, staring at his normal visage in the mirror. "I—" he tried and stuttered to a halt, pressing his hands against his face, running his fingers under his eyes and along the bridge of his nose, tracing the markings that had appeared.

"Manolo? Maria?" Joaquin grunted and rubbed at his face, blinking his single, eye blearily and squinting in the dark. "What are you doing?"

There was lightning and the soldier shot up out of his chair, his gaze never leaving his friend even as Manolo backed away from both of them, cradling his head in his hands, chest unable to keep up with his ragged breathing. His back hit the wall and they watched as he slid down, knees shaking as the light flashed again and his skeleton glowed against the shadows.

Rain made a cacophony of music with the bullfighter's gasps and Joaquin moved forward to stand beside Maria, unsure if they should approach.

"You are afraid," Manolo whispered and the words were barely heard over the crash of thunder.

It was the only sign they needed before Maria and Joaquin rushed forward, reaching for him. "_No_, Manolo," the young woman whispered, drawing his face out of his hands and pulling him so his head was on her chest and her arms were wrapped around his back. "We are merely worried."

"I am _alive_," he said, forcing the words out as if the harsher he spoke them, the more true they would become.

Joaquin rested his hand between Manolo's shoulder blades, sitting heavy on his spine. "How do you know that it will stay that way?" The soldier flinched back as Maria glared at him and just shrugged. "What?"

"Of all the insensitive—"

"I won a bet," Manolo interrupted before it could get heated. "I beat Xibalba." He did not look at Joaquin, but the other man heard the fierceness behind the words despite that. "_I am_ _alive_."

All three of them stayed there until the storm was calming, passing them over and heading on to torment other towns and places. Maria, at last, took Manolo's hand and pulled him away from the wall, back towards the bed. "You should sleep, _mi amor_," she murmured, gently herding him back on the sheets.

Joaquin pulled up the chairs and stopped when the bullfighter merely moved to the centre of his mattress and patted the areas on either side of him. Maria climbed in without any hesitation, curling up against his figure. The soldier paused for a few seconds before slowly moving, the bed dipping under his knee. Grabbing the other man's hand, Manolo pulled him in and laid his head back against one of the many pillows, ignoring the sputtering.

They curled up together as thunder rumbled in the distance and drifted off to sleep as bright eyes—one a pair of yellow, the other red skulls upon green—watched them in silence.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading and review if it pleases you.<p>

Gospel


	2. Lo Siento

Posters had started appearing around San Ángel, announcing a travelling _matador de toros_ and his son the _banderillero_—a double act that would be for the whole town to enjoy. Maria caught Manolo staring at the image a few times as they passed, heading towards the market or where ever else they had to go that day, and she remembered, with a pang in her heart, Carlos and his love for the arena and the sport (Señor Sanchez had called it an art, and they would always be in disagreement over that).

She bought tickets even though she knew that she would not be able to stomach the killing at the end of the show. Joaquin saw them first, laid out along the table, and just frowned, his eyebrows drawn together, the patch digging into his skin before he relaxed.

"Are you sure?" He asked her as Manolo was in a bedroom, the sound of his guitar drifting through the air. It wasn't a full song—they could hear him pause at places, play a few chords and remake the tune as he went along.

"No," Maria murmured, but she had to try. She had woken up to her friend being dead, but Manolo had come back to find himself the sole owner and head of casa de Sanchez and the inheritor of an estate bigger than he had ever needed or expected. A legacy of _toreros_ had left enough money in his lap for the young man to be comfortable for the rest of his life.

Wealth could only do so much, though. Looking down at the tickets she had bought, Maria hoped that these, at least, would give Manolo a taste of home. Not a single person in town failed to notice that he had been unsuccessful in even announcing a single _corrida_ since he had returned. Some whispered, saying that he had already touched death and had no desire to see the lady again so soon, others said that he was not interested in the Sanchez tradition at all, preferring to play his guitar and sing on the streets.

Yet... Manolo had come from a family of _toreros_, it was in his blood.

Could she stop him from being who he was, stop him from enjoying part of his family's history even if she didn't approve?

Joaquin laid a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to go," he said softly.

"You know I do," Maria said and they sat there in silence, listening to the merry tune that was drifting around them, Manolo's voice easing their worries just a tad as he sang about two lovers separated by the ocean but managing to come back to each other, in the end.

She didn't bother hiding the tickets—he would find out eventually, after all—and just left them on a table. Manolo came in, finishing his practice to make dinner (a disaster early on in their marriage had stopped Maria from ever approaching the stove again) and saw them.

"What's this?" he held one up, looking between his friends.

Maria shrugged and leaned down to pat Chuy on the head. "Something to do Saturday."

Humming to himself, the _torero_ looked over the piece of paper before he set it down and started pulling pans down from where they hung on a ceiling rack. His face was curiously emotionless, but when Manolo started to sing, Maria and Joaquin pushed it from their minds and just enjoyed their friend's voice rise and fall.

Saturday came too soon and they walked along the pathways of the stands, making their way down to the front row. Maria could see her father in the box, his eyes gleaming as he looked over the ring. Behind her, Joaquin was trying to dodge through the crowd, grabbing a hold of Manolo just so that he wouldn't be trapped between the people reaching for him.

"Why aren't we sitting with your father?" He grumbled and the _torero_ helped him regain his balance, grinning broadly.

"Because he enjoys this _demasiado_," She grumbled and stiffened, looking at her husband from the corner of her eye.

Manolo wasn't paying attention, his eyes on something in the far side of the arena and only turned around to look at her when Maria tugged him forward to their seats. "It's a nice day," he said when they sat down, stretching out his legs and sandwiched between them.

Shielding his sight against the glare of the sun, Joaquin looked up at the clear sky, watching a flock of birds pass over the arena. The noise around them was almost deafening, but not so loud that they couldn't hear each other speak. It only rose higher when a man stepped out on the sand, dressed in blue and gold with brown hair pulled back behind his head in a braid. He waved, the boy behind him scrambling to keep up while juggling the various _banderillas_ in his hands—each one more colourful than the last.

Maria felt Manolo shift and turned to look at him. There was a strange expression on his face—pinched, as if he had eaten something sour, but not so much in which it qualified as disgust. "How old is that boy?" He asked instead, the question not aimed at either of them; softly spoken as it was.

It was Joaquin who leaned forward, narrowing his good eye, frowning slightly and calculating. "No older than fourteen," he said, for whoever the boy was, he hadn't even reached his first growth spurt.

The bench beneath them creaked and Maria glanced down and saw Manolo's hands clutching the wood, his knuckles pale. She slipped her fingers under his palm and pulled his hand up, holding it and feeling it relax. His thumb brushed across her skin before stilling and the young woman smiled to herself.

"Did they have bull fighting in Spain?" Manolo spoke up, not tearing his eyes away from the father and son just yet.

Perhaps this was not as good a plan as Maria had hoped. "They did," she brushed her hair back, away from her eyes. "They had an event called _encierro_ where they would run the bulls along the streets of a town." The young woman winced—though she had never gone to see the event, she knew that the bulls that had been running through the streets that morning were dead before the next.

"_Encierro_," Manolo murmured, his brow furrowing.

The gate lifted, the bull was released, and the audience erupted. It was a beautiful creature; muscles rippling under brown silk. Large, white horns brushed a red cape, dust kicked up into the air as the people around the three friends gasped at the close calls, cheering when a _banderilla_ made its mark on the creature's shoulder. Maria felt Manolo grip her hand tighter, but when she looked up at his face all she could see was perfectly carved stone. She shifted a bit, leaning back, and met Joaquin's eyes behind her husband's back.

"It's a good show!" the soldier crowed, his eye shining with false mirth as he clapped one hand on his friend's shoulder. "Right, Manolo?"

Jerking out of his trance, the _torero_ glanced at Joaquin. "Wha—? Oh, yes. He's very—" The young boy, the _banderillero_, ran alongside the bull, dodging flying hooves and slammed a second _banderilla _(red and gold) into the thick, muscled shoulder. "Skilled," Manolo finished, softer than when he had started, his eyes on the arena. Maria felt him tense up beside her before the word had even faded away and turned to look down on what was happening.

One of the boy's foot got caught in the sand as the bull was turning, snorting. The _matador_ was across the arena, his face a blur but they could see the horror stretching out upon his features. Manolo was on his feet before anyone else could process what was going on, letting go of Maria, slipping out of her grasp, and vaulting over the fence.

"No!" The young woman yelled, rising to her feet just as her husband landed in the sand and ran, racing the thundering hooves. Joaquin rose beside her, about to launch himself into the arena as well when she latched onto his arm, tugging him back.

Dust rose up as the _torero_'s feet slid through dirt until he stood in front of the boy, lifting one hand as if that would stop the creature from running them over. As one, the audience gasped, stiffening in anticipation.

"Manolo!" Maria and Joaquin screamed as their friend stared the bull in the eye, one foot braced back against the sand and the other out before him. Manolo had no weapons, he had nothing except for his guitar, and, yet, he rose like a wall before that boy.

The sand was kicked up, creating a cloud until the audience was coughing, turning away from the arena in case it got into their eyes or mouths. It created a fog of brown and the smell of it filled Maria's nostrils—stifling, stuffy, and stinging. The young woman had covered her eyes with her hands, trying to see past the dust that was slowly drifting downward like snowflakes. Next to her, Joaquin was standing with his hands braced against the fence stopping him from jumping down into the arena, listening for any sign of his friend.

Yet, the world and the arena settled—the boy seen first, having managed to scramble onto his back, chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared straight ahead. He had pushed himself further into the sand in a mad scramble to get away but was now frozen and stiff, waiting to be swallowed up by the earth.

Manolo stood before him, both hands stretched out, palms open, fingers spread. His clothing had been lightened by the dust as it settled on the fabric, on his skin, and in his hair. Brown eyes never moved from the creature that was before them, however, as the bull had paused in front of him, air billowing from two large nostrils, the dark gaze staring, meeting the _torero_'s with ease.

Four long gouges were carved into the arena; a path from the hooves of the bull tracing where it had to started to stop to where it was now. Maria felt that she should apologize for digging her nails into Joaquin's arm as Manolo reached forward, but the rest of the audience was holding their breath, too.

Movements slow, the _torero_ paused with the palm of his hand shaking in the space between him and the bull's nose. Huffing, the beast stepped forward, pressing itself closer to Manolo, forehead bumping the palm, nosing the black fabric, sneezing at the dust left behind. The horns, which had seemed like two great lances, were now stiff arms embracing the young man as the animal pressed its forehead against his chest.

Blood was trickling down the thick ribs, dripping upon the sand and the _torero_ looked past the creature's eyes to its shoulder, staring at the _banderillas_ sticking out from the flesh. His hands rubbed the muscular jaw and patted the sides of the thick neck. A snort brought them upwards, patting the wide forehead and scratching behind oval ears.

Maria stood, unable to move—_unable to breathe_—as the bull lowered itself down onto the sand, following Manolo to the earth as the _torero_ kneeled. Almost as if she was afraid of breaking the moment between her husband and the creature, the young woman pushed her body up against Joaquin's. Her breath hitched when the man in the arena reached forward, took the red and gold _banderilla_ in hand, and yanked it free.

The bull stayed where it was, resting against Manolo and, coming from behind, the matador grabbed his son by the shoulders, helped him out of the sand, and pulled him back towards the wall.

Something invisible moved through the audience—they shifted, held their breath, and waited. Maria and Joaquin could not place it; they were waiting for whatever it was to happen.

There was Manolo.

There was the bull.

Friends, perhaps, sitting still in the arena.

When the young man, at last, stood, the animal followed, head low, trotting beside him no matter which way the young _torero_ went. The town of San Ángel watched with baited breath as man and bull headed, together, towards the gate. They moved slowly, one of Manolo's hands on a white horn—not guiding, but just touching. Side by side they walked; neither leading, neither following, just _being_.

Equals.

Maria's heart swelled.

The gate shut behind them.

There were no cheers, no boos. People inhaled, exhaled, and gradually left. Manolo exited from one of the doors at some point, Maria and Joaquin still waiting. He said nothing at first, standing upon the bloody sand before he turned to look at them.

"I think," he said. "I know what I want to do."

Joaquin grinned, his teeth bright and white. "Besides singing?"

Manolo's smile was soft and he was looking someplace else, staring off at something they could not see. For a second, his eyes burned yellow, matching the sun at his back. "Besides singing."

* * *

><p>Gracias a Amelia que me ayudó con todo dicción toreo.<p>

Review if you fancy it and thank you for reading!

Gospel


	3. Al Sueño

It was the chill of the night that woke Maria. A window was open, some candles had been extinguished by a breeze, and the moon hung low in the sky. It was too early to be woken up, too late for anyone to be awake; those precious hours between night and dawn. She pulled the blankets further up on her shoulders, breathed in, and moved closer to where Manolo was.

Her hand pressed against the mattress and the young woman's eyes snapped open, staring at the empty side of the bed. Despite the chill she sat up and looked about the room—his guitar was missing from the stand and she sighed, wrapped herself up in the blanket, and made her way out of the bedroom.

The floorboards creaked under her feet as she padded through the house. Chuy looked up from his place by the spider plant hanging from the ceiling, yawning, saw who it was, and settled down again. Trailing out behind her, the blanket made Maria look like a spirit as moonlight danced upon her features. Pushing open the door to the garden, the young woman stepped out upon cold stone and saw her husband sitting under the sea of stars, his guitar placed behind him. He was wearing a night shirt and pants, shoes and other warm clothes forgotten. The plants around him swayed in a breeze—except for the cacti which stood like silent guardians.

"Manolo?" She called and the young man turned, eyes bright even though his face was shadowed. "_Mi amor_, why are you out here so late?"

His hand reached out for her and Maria took it, allowing him to pull her closer to the bench. "I couldn't sleep," Manolo pressed her against his side and she sighed, curling up against the heat of his body as the icy stone crawled up against her despite the thickness of the blanket.

"Oh, Manolo," Sighing, Maria took one of his hands in her own and pulled it under the long fabric covering her body. She rubbed her fingers over his knuckles, "Was it a bad dream?"

A coyote howled and was joined by a few more, yipping and singing their haunting melody. The couple sat, listening to the song for a few minutes until it tapered off like smoke drifting up to the sky.

"No," Manolo murmured when there was silence once more. "No, it's not that." He rested his cheek on her head and breathed in slowly, chest expanding and deflating again.

She wanted to ask him to tell her, wanted to demand it out of him—what were these dreams that kept him from sleeping? What haunted him at night? But the answer... the answer was far more terrifying than asking the question for she still dreamed about him, lying in that casket, dressed up in his finest clothing and waiting to be placed into the ground. Maria didn't even have the courage to wonder what had happened to the corpse; Joaquin had taken care of it before Manolo could even enquire as to where it was.

Shifting slightly, Manolo dragged her out of her thoughts by pulling her closer. "Have you ever had those dreams," he started, paused, and swallowed. One of his hands plucked at the guitar—just aimless notes drifting through the air. "The type of dreams where they're about something or somewhere and you think they're real?"

Maria tightened her hold on his hand, but she could not look up at him. She had dreamed of her friends while in Spain; imagining how tall they were getting, what they looked like, who they were becoming. She had dreams of them too during her lonelier nights or when she was too much of an outcast among the women that she had pitied during her time there.

During those days, she had thought those dreams were real.

"What do you dream of?" The young woman asked instead, because her 'yes' would have come out broken, betraying all the emotion she had felt during her time across the world. "_Manolo_," she urged, tugging gently on his arm when he didn't answer.

"I see them, sometimes," He said, "_Mamá y papá_."

Maria stilled and her breath hitched and stopped, filling her throat like it was a tangible object. "You," she swallowed and frowned a bit. "You _see_ them? Do you mean you dream of them?"

"I do not know," he shrugged and looked down at her, his eyes as wide as they have ever been, biting his bottom lip in thought before opening his mouth again. "They have... never looked at me." Manolo's words broke a little, shattering in the cool night air and Maria pulled him down until his head was on her lap. "It's as if I am the ghost now; only allowed to watch them."

For a second, Maria wondered what would be more horrible; being able to watch her family but never speak to them, or to never see them at all. No, she decided with ease, her spine stiffening just slightly with her decision. Seeing them but unable to do anything would be far, far worse. "Do you think it has anything to do with—" _Your death_, she wanted to say. _Your resurrection_. But the words died in her mouth and tasted like ash before they could even form and Manolo—bless him, really—just sighed.

"I don't know," he murmured, and that was the end of that.

The younger Maria, the tiny voice in her head, demanded that she get more answers, more information. The older Maria pulled her husband up and led him inside, closing the doors and the windows, blowing out the rest of the candles, and went to bed with her husband at her back and the dawn on the horizon.

Joaquin, a couple of hours later, had simply just let himself in as—when Maria came downstairs, yawning and rubbing at her eyes—the young man was sitting in a chair and reading one of the many books that had been left out and about. She grumbled a greeting to him and fished through a cabinet for coffee while he snickered behind his hand.

The clock said noon, her body said eight in the morning, and time passed at a snail's pace before she was able to fill up a mug and sit on the sofa with her legs curled up to her chest and her life's essence cradled in her hands.

"So, where is your beloved _guitarrista_?" Joaquin grinned, placing the book on his lap and leaning back in his chair.

"He _better_ be sleeping," Maria grumbled and glared at the smiling man across from her. "He's had a long night."

The soldier wiggled his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Not like that you _babuino_!" She looked as if she was about the throw her mug at him before deciding otherwise, sipping at it and glaring at her friend over the white ceramic. Swallowing the bitter liquid, Maria relaxed into the cushions and sighed. "He hasn't been sleeping well," the young woman admitted, her voice soft.

Joaquin's smile dropped instantly and le leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Manolo? _Not _sleeping?" He waved his hand as she furrowed her brow. "He could sleep everywhere—I think his _padre_ caught him taking a nap in the bullring once—_during_ practice."

Maria dragged one hand down her face and knew, deep in her heart, that she couldn't have known, that she was gone for ten years, and yet... something burned deep inside her and it felt a lot like guilt. "He says he dreams about his parents—of watching them."

Across from her, Joaquin said nothing, his eyes burning like the coffee in her hands.

"He believes he's seeing them."

There was a moment where confusion crossed over the soldier's face and he rolled the words around in his head before light eyes widened and his fingers were digging into his knees. "Is he?"

The look Maria shot him was as cold as cracking ice and burning like the desert on a midsummer's day. It was a glare that had easily silenced him in their childhood, but they were grown now and Joaquin was used to looking at swords and down the barrels of a gun, so the young woman sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I don't know."

Stairs creaked and they turned to look at the man walking down into the room, rubbing at his face and blinking blearily. Chuy got out of his bed and scrambled towards Manolo, almost making the poor bullfighter trip onto his face. Giving the pig a pat on the head, the _torero_ walked over to the nearest couch, scrambled up on the cushions, and curled into something that was almost a ball shape but not quite.

"Good _morning_, Manolo," Joaquin grinned when his friend groaned loud enough to make Maria smile. "How is the sleeping beauty?"

"_Cállate_, Joaquin," the younger man groaned out, throwing one arm over his face and yet using the other to pet the pig begging for his attention. He scratched behind the floppy ears, moving over the round head until Chuy was on the verge of purring like a cat. Each time his hand stopped the animal snorted and nudged against him until he started again.

Maria and Joaquin watched him, snickering to themselves as Chuy woke the poor _guitarrista_ over and over again each time Manolo seemed like he was about to drift off. Finishing her coffee, the young woman set the mug on one of the nearest flat surfaces and crawled onto the couch with her husband, bracing her hands against his chest and grinning when he groaned.

"Honestly, _mi amor_, if you wanted to keep sleeping you should have stayed upstairs," Maria laid across his chest and smiled up at Joaquin.

The soldier chuckled, shook his head slightly, and leaned back in his chair.

Manolo wrapped his arms around his wife's waist, pulling her down closer and burying his head in her shoulder. He breathed in against her, sighing softly and relaxing with each deep inhale.

Maria started to pet her hands through his hair, soothing down the wild strands, easing the mess back against his head. "Manolo," she murmured. "Did you even go back to sleep?" There was silence from the _guitarrista_ and she leaned back, bracing her hands against his chest and frowning down at him. "_Manolo_—"

"I couldn't," he said, hands brushing over her arms and carefully gripping her shoulders.

"Are they nightmares?" Joaquin spoke up and met his friend's eyes when the _guitarrista_ turned his head to look at him. "A few of the soldiers couldn't sleep," he said, remembering a moment from long ago when his father rode back with a couple of men. Many that he had left with had been missing and those that had returned... their screams still echoed in his own dreams. "They were... remembering."

Sitting up, Maria still on his lap—her arms now wrapping around his neck—Manolo looked Joaquin over, frowning and biting his bottom lip. "They aren't memories," he said, hands moving from his wife's shoulders to her waist. "They... they seem _real_."

"Real?" Joaquin stood up from his place on the love seat and joined Manolo and Maria on the couch. "How so?"

The _guitarrista's _hands tightened and loosened again, his eyes focused on the floor, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows as he thought. "It's a feeling," he murmured. "It feels like..." There was a long moment in which the only thing to fill the house was the ticking of the clock and the noise coming in from the street. Manolo never answered them, his feet shifting on the hardwood, his gaze avoiding theirs.

Taking one of his hands off her sides, Maria held it and gently squeezed. "Like what?" She prodded, her voice no higher than a whisper.

"Dead," Manolo spat out and looked just as shocked as they when the word fell like a bundle of bricks from his lips. "It feels like I'm dead."

Joaquin flinched as if the man beside him was a snake, his pale eyes wide and watching the _guitarrista_ as if he would become the skeleton once more and the flesh was an illusion. "You dream of the Land of the Remembered?"

Maria frowned when her husband shuddered and rested his forehead against her shoulder. "Manolo," she urged again. "Tell us," Her hands cupped his jaw, making him look up and meet her eyes. "_Por favor, mi amor_."

He took a great, shuddering breath and closed his eyes. "Sometimes," Manolo breathed out. "Only sometimes."

"And the other times?" Joaquin brushed his hand over his friend's shoulders and pulled him close so the _guitarrista_ was sandwiched within a cocoon of his two best friends.

He was going limp between them, leaning back and forward, somehow, at the same time, each breath growing slower, deeper, as they sat there, waiting for his answer. "I see the Land of the Forgotten," Manolo managed at last with their arms around him, their bodies supporting him, their eyes gentle and touch just as soft. "And the people there—" the words were cut off and he pressed his lips together.

Trying to get more out of him was like trying to squeeze juice from a prune so Maria and Joaquin sat there with their friend between them, two pillars of support for a young man who was more tired in spirit than body.

The world kept spinning around them and a knock came at the door. The three friends raised their heads, peeking up like little meerkats and watching the wood as if it would suddenly turn to glass and show them who was on the other side.

A knock came again, more insistent, and Manolo groaned, pulling himself out from the pile of living blankets and moving towards the door. He opened it, hair a mess, his eyes blinking slowly, and looked down upon the small girl that barely reached up to his kneecap. "Oh," the young man murmured, and Maria was at his side, looking over his shoulder and frowning. Clearing his throat, the _guitarrista_ continued. "Can we help you?"

"Señor Posada asked for Joaquin," the girl was staring at Manolo, eyes quickly moving across his face. "You're—"

Gently moving past Maria and her husband, the soldier saluted them and urged the girl along the street, talking about a horse and the church though the young woman standing in the doorway was pretty sure that was nowhere near what the child was going to say.

* * *

><p>I'm pretty sure you've all realized I'm making this up as I go. La Muerte might be in the next chapter or the one after that, I'm not sure.<p>

Thank you for reading and review if it pleases you,

Gospel.


	4. Scars

The couches of Casa de Sanchez were lush and Maria found herself sinking into the cushions with a blanket around her shoulders and a book in her lap. Joaquin was on the floor, petting Chuy and looking towards the door every once in a while. Around them, the sun was setting, casting shadows along the sides of the walls, and yet neither of them moved to get up and turn on the lights.

"I don't know him as well as I should," Maria had placed her book to the side, brushing her bangs away from her face, and stare up at the ceiling. "I didn't grow up with him," her voice turned mournful and soft, finally speaking the words that had been stuck in her throat for days. "I don't know what's changed."

"With Manolo?" Joaquin looked up and frowned, tilting his head to the side as if he was physically rolling her words back and forth in his head. "What do you mean?"

The young woman looked like she was ready to flop on top of a cushioned surface—that is, if she wasn't already lying on one. "He came back from the dead," she dropped the words bluntly and ignored the way the soldier stiffened. "More confident, of course, and more willing to make a change in..." Well, in many things but seeing that he had run out of the house that morning to meet with the council of the town in trying to change the _corridas_ to more... _bull friendly_ (he had said that, he had said "bull friendly" and Maria wondered if the council would even take him seriously), her assumptions were not too far from the truth.

Across from her, Joaquin placed his hands in his lap, his face twisted in a, now common, look of guilt. "I don't know him as well as I could," he admitted softly, his voice just barely heard over Chuy's snores. "I was gone, saving other towns, doing what the general," He cleared his throat and corrected himself. "—your father, told me to."

"_Papá_," Maria groaned and let her head fall back against the arm rest, her eyes still on her friend. She sighed but gave him a smile that was both soft and sad. "Seems like we both don't know him as well as we would like to think."

The door opened and both looked up to see Manolo come in, rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck and almost stumbling in the dark before he found the light switch. "If you two keep sitting around in the dark," he said, coming forward to take one of the love seats. "The neighbours might talk."

"Let them talk," Maria sniffed and grinned, curling up under the blanket. "How did it go?"

"Better than I was expecting," the _guitarrista_ closed his eyes and laid his head back against the chair. "No bull will ever loose it's life in the bullring ever again."

The young woman smiled. "That's a good victory."

A hum rose from Manolo in agreement, his grin matching hers except for the fact that he looked far more exhausted. He didn't speak beyond that, his body slowly calming under the soft, yellow glow of the lights. Silence settled around them and the minutes passed slow with the clock ticking in the background.

Manolo's foot hit the coffee table and Maria looked up, smiling at the relaxation on his face, cheek pressed against the side of his chair. His arms were laying across his stomach, rising and falling with each slow and even breath.

There was peace and Maria lifted her book up again, flipping it back to the page she had left on. Joaquin continued to pet the pig, his own face softening around the eye patch as Chuy fell asleep underneath the gentle hand.

A clatter, a slam, something screeching but whether it came from man or wood was questionable. The young woman had seen her husband jerk out of the corner of her eye in the way some people drifting off did jerk—the strange falling feeling before being pulled back into your body.

In the next second, Joaquin was on his feet, the animal he was petting jerking up and on all four hooves as Maria jerked, shot up, and lifted her book as a weapon. Manolo was on the floor, gasping, shoulders shaking as he stared, wide eyed, at the floor. The room was frozen in time, all eyes upon the _guitarrista_ until the young man groaned, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against the hardwood.

"Manolo," Maria placed the book back on the table and kneeled beside him, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. On the _guitarrista's _other side, Joaquin sat down—not touching just yet, but he was there, waiting until the younger man had stopped shaking. A cold sweat had formed along the dark forehead, sticking black hair against the fair skin.

"Sorry," He gasped and forced himself up on one hand, brushing his forehead, eyes, and mouth with the other. "I just..." The air shuddered through his body, shaking each of his muscles. "_Me sorprendió_."

His friends shared a look over his back and Maria pulled him, gently, upwards so he was no longer prostrate upon the floor. "_Mi amor_," she murmured, brushing his hair away from his face and cupping his cheeks with her palms. "Perhaps you would sleep better in bed?"

He opened his eyes and, for a moment, they were merely sockets filled with two brightly glowing suns—he blinked and the rich shade of brown, the same shade of the arena sand when it rained, was back. "I'm not tired," Manolo tried, giving her a smile that looked too exhausted to be on his face.

The white shirt sticking to his chest and back, highlighting the lines of lean muscle along his torso, was growing damp and Maria sighed. _Men_, she thought, and hoisted her husband onto his feet. "You should take a long bath," she decided. "Relax a bit before dinner."

Joaquin wrapped one arm around the _guitarrista's_ shoulders when the younger man got up to his feet and stumbled just a bit. "Come on, man," the soldier grinned and led Manolo to the stairs.

Maria watched them go, shaking her head and about to turn when a flash of green caught her eye. It was underneath Manolo's shirt, only appearing when the fabric rode up his back and bunched up around his waist. "Wait," She called out before she could stop herself and the two men turned around to look at the young woman as she stood up, feet slapping against the floor as she made her way over to the stairs. "What is that?"

Frowning, Manolo followed her eyes down his torso. "What?"

She reached them and poked his side, making the _guitarrista_ yelp and jump back. "That," she said to the green glow that was pulsing on his skin.

"I don't—hey!" Yelping, Manolo found his shirt being pulled over his head, Joaquin, not caring about the other man's curses and sputters, took the fabric, and tossed it onto the floor. "_Eso_ _no era necesario!_"

"Sure it wasn't," the soldier smirked, leaning back and tilting his head just slightly to the side as he looked down on his friend. His eyes, however, were drawn to the same thing that Maria had been focused on, however; the strange, swirling markings that had grown on Manolo's skin.

They were glowing a bright acidic green and started low on his hip, underneath the edge of his pants and arched up along his side, curling just a bit over his stomach, and twisting across just a few of his ribs. Maria reached out and almost pulled back when they pulsed—the colour fading and rising in a pattern she couldn't quite distinguish.

"What is _that_?" Joaquin's eyes were wide and he stared at the colouration.

"I don't know," tugging in his friend's hold, Manolo frowned, but didn't snap. "It wasn't that big this morning."

Maria pressed her hand against one of the lines and pulled back when the _guitarrista_ hissed through his teeth. "Sorry!" She looked up at him, noting the way he was biting his lip and how his eyes were tightly shut. "And what do you mean it was here this morning? Why didn't you tell me?!"

"It wasn't that big!" Manolo motioned down to the markings and Joaquin turned him so that he and Maria could get a good look at it. "When I woke up I thought it was paint!"

"Paint doesn't glow, Manolo!" Maria's fingers hovered above the green—not touching just yet, but tracing over them in the air. "Do you know what it means?"

The _guitarrista_ opened his mouth to answer, but stiffened, his back straightening, the muscles along his spine and chest twitching before something started to burn its way across his flesh, arching and carving across muscle, pulsing just as the others were. Manolo gasped, his hands tightening into fists, each breath coming out ragged and hissing through his teeth.

When it stopped, he collapsed forward, his forehead resting against the wall of the house, both palms braced against the stone. His shoulders trembled and Maria pressed her hand against his back, rubbing soothing circles against his flushed skin.

"It's a bull," Joaquin said after a few moments and the young woman looked at the lines, the curves, and where they thickened and thinned.

And it was; the newer lines made up the horns—but there was a head with burning eyes, hooves thundering across Manolo's flesh like it was the sand of the arena. Each time the _guitarrista_ took a breath, it seemed as if the creature was moving, glaring at them with the rage of thousands.

"Go get him a shirt," Maria turned to Joaquin, her eyes bright. "A black one."

He nodded and went pounding up the stairs as the young woman tried to get her husband away from the wall. "_Mi amor_," she murmured, brushing her hands over his cheeks and feeling his hot forehead with the pads of her fingers.

"I'm sorry," Manolo leaned into her hands and closed his eyes.

"You have to tell me things are bothering you," brushing back his hair, Maria gave him a soft smile. "_Por favor_?"

"_Si_," he murmured and wrapped his arms around her waist, placing his forehead on her shoulder. It was nowhere close to the promise Maria had wanted to get, but it was acceptable... for now.

A shirt slapped Manolo in the side of the face and he grunted, but pulled away as his wife giggled. Joaquin waved from the top of the stairs as the _guitarrista_ shrugged the shirt over his head and pulled it down over his stomach. It hid the glowing, pulsing light and Maria took his hand (and Joaquin's, once he was down the stairs) and pulled them towards the door.

Manolo stumbled a bit but regained his footing as the soldier reached out to steady him. "Where are we going?" He kept his voice low as the moon illuminated the streets and the windows around them were dark.

Shining in the dim, pale light, Maria's eyes were golden as she looked back at them, her face shadowed underneath the starry sky. "_El cementerio_," she said, and led them down the cobblestones to where the tombs rose above the ground, lights flickering at the entrance. The graveyard was empty except for a wind that brushed through their hair and whispered in their ears. "La Muerte!" The young woman called out over the breeze.

"I'm pretty sure that's not how you summon a Goddess of Death," Joaquin pointed out and flinched back when Maria turned on him, eyes ablaze and hands on her hips.

"And what would you do, _Joaquin_?" She emphasized his name, rolling it around with her tongue before spitting it out.

The soldier opened his mouth to comment when his eyes focused on something over her shoulder. Maria turned and watched Manolo move between the graves, not looking at anything but following where the breeze was going. His friends hurried to catch up to him and, when they turned, they saw her; skin white and made of sweet sugar, her hat lit up by the candles burning across the brim.

La Muerte smiled at them, her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. "Hello Maria, Joaquin," her eyes fixed upon the _guitarrista_ and softened. "Manolo."

"My lady," the young man bowed awkwardly, with one hand in front and one leg behind, black hair bobbing in front of his face, but the goddess' grin merely widened.

"Apparently shouting her name in the cemetery does work," Joaquin muttered and followed Maria over.

The young woman fought the urge to bite her nails when the bright, fire-like eyes focused on her. They weren't cold, but warm, and the lips red like fire candies quirked upwards, creating deep dimples onto the white cheeks. Maria squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. "We have a few questions," she said.

"Mortals wouldn't call me for anything less," La Muerte floated across the ground, a light emitting from her that was separate from the moon and the stars. Her hands folded in front of her, hat spreading out above them as she approached. "How can I help you?"

It had come; the moment to get all her questions answered, to figure out what, exactly, was going on, and Maria's throat was dry when she opened her mouth, unable to say anything. "Manolo," she turned to her husband and he looked back at her, turning his head to glance at the goddess before he stepped forward.

"I keep having dreams," he said and La Muerte's burning gaze turned to him. "I keep seeing the Land of the Remembered and the Land of the Forgotten." She did not speak and Maria watched as Manolo scrambled to fill the silence, his words being drawn from his mouth like venom from a wound. "I don't feel the cold and I'm never sleeping as much as I used to," his shoulders slumped, but no one interrupted him. "Animals like me more—sometimes they even come running up to me, and..." the _guitarrista_ paused, swallowed, and opened his mouth again. "Sometimes I can see spirits of the dead walking through San Ángel."

That last one had Maria grabbing Joaquin's arm and digging her nails into his sleeves. She watched La Muerte lower herself to the ground and worried, for a moment, if the long, crimson dress would get dirty.

"Oh, _mi torito_," the goddess was still smiling, though it was sad, now. "My husband and I, we gave you your life back," she admitted. "But your body..." La Muerte hummed a bit under her breath but didn't finish. "When mortals are born, their bodies are created and then their souls are placed inside," her eyes moved over Maria and Joaquin. "But when you died, Manolo, your body could no longer support your soul, and, so, you were sent to the Land of the Remembered."

The skulls on her hat clacked against each other as she moved forward, the candles flickering. "When you were sent back to the mortal realm, your body was in no condition to support your soul—so we had to make you a new one."

"A new one?" Manolo whispered and looked down at his hands, spreading his fingers as if looking for the differences. "But, I am not dead. I have a heart beat."

"It is still a _body_," La Muerte laughed and the sound was like church bells. "However..." she held her hand out and, without thinking, the young man took it.

A golden light snaked across his skin, starting at where their hands were clasped and working its way up his arm and around the rest of his body. The _guitarrista's _skin faded with it; simply vanishing as if the illuminationwas sucking it up. Manolo gasped—not in a hurt way—as he looked down at the bones that made up his fingers and palms. The goddess kept a firm grip on his hand, keeping him close until the black and yellow eyes were staring up at her, the skeletal face glowing like her sugar underneath the moon.

"You walk between life and death," La Muerte slowly released his hand, her crystalline fingers running over the hard bone as she stepped away and his muscle muscle, the skin, _everything_ came back as she left Manolo. "A soul in the mortal realm."

"And the scars?" The _guitarrista_ lifted up his shirt so she could see the green pulsing on his body, the _toro_ blazing on his skin.

She just smiled. "They would have been on your soul," the goddess bowed her head slightly, the ornaments on her hat singing as they clinked together. "But now that you walk between both worlds, they mark themselves on your skin." She glided backwards, her candles swinging like hips, their flames waving goodbye.

"They?" Manolo stepped towards her, reaching out a hand for that last, breathless question. "What are they?"

The word came back to them, breathed out of liquorice lips, sweet as cherries and light as cream. It echoed against the gravestones and carved its way into their memories.

"_Bendiciones_."

* * *

><p>I was sick but now I'm not, so have a little thing with La Muerte. I don't know how much will be continued after this as most of the questions should be answered.<p>

All mistakes are my own in both Spanish and English.

Leave a review if you fancy it (I like them, they brighten up my day) and thank you for reading!

Gospel.


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